


Sweater Weather

by Lepord257



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Lazer Tag, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 06:25:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17156909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepord257/pseuds/Lepord257
Summary: “Grif, this is perfect!” The traitor says, turning back to Grif. “We’ll both wear our ugliest sweater to the party and have everyone vote on who’s sweater is uglier. If I win, you have to admit I’m good at ugly sweaters.”Secret Santa gift for Cyborg-Sabi. Merry Christmas!





	Sweater Weather

_“Ribs?”_ Simmons drops the toy pistol in shock, letting it dangle from the heavy wire connecting it to the vest. The force of the dropping gun pulls the vest from his already weak grip, sending the entire contraption tumbling to the floor.

Grif snorts, pulling his own vest over his head. “Yes, Simmons. Ribs. Sometimes non-vegans eat them.”

“But not on _Christmas!”_

“Yeah, on Christmas! Why, what do you have, sculpted tofu?”

“If you must know,” Simmons says, scooping the vest off the floor, “I normally have roasted cauliflower.”

Grif stops fiddling with the buckles to stare open mouthed at the man he once called friend. “No.”

“And on Christmas Eve,” Simmons continues gleefully, “it’s baked squash after presents.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

Grif fastens the last buckle on the vest with a pointed _click._ “You’re a _monster.”_

Simmons grins at him, the asshole.

“Do you have any _non_ -terrible traditions? Or do you spend the morning skinning cats and kicking puppies? Maybe round off the evening by stealing candy from babies, or pushing aging grandmothers down stairs?”

“None of my traditions are terrible, you’re just an uncultured slob.”

Grif puts a hand on his chest in mock offense. Simmons snorts.

“Like you’re one to talk, Mr. _Roasted Cauliflower._ I bet you’ve never even worn an ugly sweater.”

Simmons yanks the vest over his head with more way more force than necessary. “I have too.”

“Bullshit. You’re too uptight to appreciate the joy of wearing a horrendous mountain of yarn masquerading as clothing. You’d combust.”

“I am _not._ I love ugly sweaters!” Grif raises an eyebrow. “I do!”

“You don’t even know what an ugly sweater looks like.”

Simmons fastens the vest buckles and yanks on the adjustment straps. “It’s a sweater that’s ugly. It’s not hard.”

Grif shakes his head, slowly. “My poor, foolish Simmons. There is so much more to an ugly sweater than looking bad. It’s an _art_.”

“It’s an ugly sweater!”

Grif is spared Simmon’s weak attempts to spare his own ego when Tucker bursts in, Wash catching the door on the backswing and holding it open for Kai, Church, and Caboose. “Sup, cockbites? I have news!”

Grif and Simmons share a _look._ “If this is about the guy from accounting with the lizard tattoo-”

Which of course is when Donut perks up. “The what now?”

“It’s not about the guy from accounting,” Tucker says, reaching for one of the blue vests. “It’s about Thursday night movie night.”

“You’re cancelling,” says Grif.

“No.”

“Forever,” says Simmons.

“No.”

“You’ve realized Reservoir Dogs sucks,” says Grif.

“N- It doesn’t!”

“Still in denial,” says Simmons, shaking his head.

“Oh my God, shut up. The one closest to Christmas-”

“Which is the one on the 20th,” Wash interjects from where he’s helping Caboose extract himself from the mess he’s made of his vest.

“-will be a holiday party. And I know you losers don’t have anything going on that day, so you’d _better_ be there.”

Sarge pauses in his blatant duct taping of his vest’s sensors to glare suspiciously at Tucker. “And if we don’t come to what is clearly a trap designed to hit us at our most vulnerable?”

“Sarge-” Donut sighs.

“Then…” Tucker trails off, glancing around the room like it’ll supply him with an appropriate threat. He stops on Caboose and Wash, the former of which has produced a pair of scissors from God knows where that Church is trying to wrestle away from him, while Wash hollers about damage to the equipment. “Then I’ll tell Caboose Santa isn’t real. And it will be _your fault.”_

“Men,” Sarge intones.

“No,” says Grif.

“Clear your calendars,” Sarge continues.

“Yes sir!”

_“No.”_

“Grif, this is perfect!” The traitor says, turning back to Grif. “We’ll both wear our ugliest sweater to the party and have everyone vote on who’s sweater is uglier. If I win, you have to admit I’m good at ugly sweaters.”

“And when I win?”

“You won’t.”

_“And when I win?”_

Simmons pauses, considering. “I’ll try your Christmas ribs.”

“Deal.”

They shake on it.

* * *

A week before the party, The Sweater arrives in the mail. The capitals are necessary. This isn’t any ugly sweater. This is _The_ ugly sweater. This is a sweater fit to drive fashion designers and marketing execs to tears. This is a sweater to make Medusa cover her monstrous visage in shame. This is The Sweater.

The majority of it is a deep maroon, which is already a terrible color in Grif’s humble yet accurate opinion, but that isn’t what makes it so terrible. Across the shoulders are a forest of Christmas trees, all decorated in green and pink and orange ornaments that light up if you press a button on the hem. Santa chucks presents out of his sleigh pulled by a reindeer sporting a _blue_ nose also at the hem, and snowmen in tophats line the ribs from top to bottom. A separate hidden button will play Jingle Bells when pressed. The Sweater is a goddamn fire hazard.

But none of that is what makes the sweater The Sweater. No. That honor goes to the image framed in an ostentatious Christmas wreath that for some reason has four candles on it, one of them bright pink for reasons Grif can’t fathom. It’s also the reason The Sweater cost a small fortune to commision.

What makes the sweater The Sweater, is Simmons’ ugly mug immortalized in yarn and cross stitching.

Simmons is going to eat his words and delicious Christmas Ribs.

* * *

The week leading up to the party is the longest week of Grif’s life. There’s no classes, an empty campus, and nothing to distract him from the atrocity buried under boxes and unwrapped gifts in the back of the closet. Simmons comes over on Tuesday for Halo wearing a disgrace of a sweater that’s made to look like a cardigan over a button up. He couldn’t be more proud.

He also wins that round, because he’s wearing a sweater sporting one Pickle Rick. The only thing uglier than Pickle Rick is The Sweater.

Nevertheless, the days tick down and the 20th arrives. Grif unveils The Sweater to an awestruck Kai in the privacy of their apartment as she forces dangly ornament shaped earrings through partially healed piercing holes.

“Oh my God.”

“I know.”

“Oh my _God.”_

“I know.”

“Put it on right now I need pictures, oh my _GOD.”_

They end up leaving later than planned, partially because Kai insists on taking a bazillion pictures and partially because he can’t find a coat with a working zipper and he wants to see Simmon’s stupid face when he reveals his masterpiece. As a result, the party is in full swing when they arrive.

Jingle Bell Rock is blasting loud enough that Grif anticipates a noise violation by the end of the night. Muffled gunshots can just barely be heard over the music and are quickly replaced with indignant shrieking. Tucker must have followed through with his threat to play Die Hard as a Christmas movie.

Grif and Kai don’t bother knocking, and instead stroll in to survey the damage. Kai makes a beeline for the beer before she’s even shed her coat, and Grif resigns himself to dragging her drunk ass back to the apartment at one am.

Grif scans the room as he tosses his own coat over the back of the couch. No sign of Simmons, although there’s no mistaking the nerd’s nasally voice berating their host for his movie choices. No sign on Church either, which is probably for the best. No pretense of “holiday” party can stop that man’s burning hatred for anything related to Christmas. The plastic tree by the TV is half melted from the incident last year.

He does, however, see Donut. Mostly because the man pops into existence three inches from his face.

“Grif! You made i- _OH MY GOD!”_

“Jesus, Donut! Some of us still have working ears.”

Donut isn’t listening, eyes locked on The Sweater.

“Yeah, I know, it’s great.”

Donut abruptly bounds towards the kitchen, skids to a stop at the halfway point, races back to give Grif a confusing but appreciated high five, then sprints back into the kitchen where the yelling starts in earnest.

Grif is considering following if only to see what all _that_ was about, when Tucker pokes his head out, lets out yet another ear piercing “Oh my God!” and an “I told you! I fucking told you!” Before ducking back into the kitchen.

Okay, so that was weird. He’s also not going anywhere near the kitchen for the rest of the night. You couldn’t pay him enough to make that appealing.

Turns out he doesn’t have to. Because someone pushes Simmons out of the kitchen and into Grif’s line of sight. And suddenly everything makes sense.

Because Simmons is also wearing a Sweater. Only Simmons’ is a bright, pumpkin orange. It’s dotted with snowflakes, christmas lights, and dozens of pictures of Grif’s face. It’s ugly as sin.

“Um,” says Simmons, voice cracking more on one sylable than a typical teenage boy’s does in all of adolescence.

“Oh my God.”

“UM.”

Grif looks Simmons dead in the eye. He puts everything he has into keeping his face straight and his voice steady as he tells him, “I win.”

Donut bends space and time such that he’s able to pop up behind Grif and drag him towards the couch with an arm slung around his neck. “Now that you’re here, we can take a picture for the Christmas card!”

Grif contorts himself to look back at Simmons, being dragged by a beaming Tucker. He looks less reluctant, and more frozen in terror. Guess he can’t handle losing.

Tucker and Donut manhandle their respective charges onto the center of the couch, squeezing in on either side. There’s not enough room for four people on the couch. There’s barely room for three people on the couch. Grif finds himself with the zipper of his coat digging into his back and Simmons’ pointy prosthetics boring a hole in this leg and side. Donut and Tucker lean across them to give each other a high five. Simmons squeaks like a dog toy as he’s pushed closer to Grif.

“Hey Grif!” Donut says, a tad too loud to be casual. “Why don’t you put an arm around Simmons?”

Simmons flushes redder than Grif’s sweater. “I really don’t think-”

Grif extracts his arm and drapes it over Simmons’ shoulders. It’s actually a hell of a lot more comfortable this way. Less hard metal embedded in his delicate arm flesh. Simmons emits a sound only dogs should be able to hear.

By the time Lopez has frogmarched Sarge away from the camera and set the timer by his own damn self, Grif has committed to the idea of not leaving the couch for the rest of the night. It may smell like alcohol and those pine tree air fresheners, but at least it’s comfortable. Which is more than he can say for Simmons. The man is all bones and squeaking.

“Siéntate, porque no volveré a hacer esto.” Lopez pushes a button on the camera, and goes to stand behind the couch next to Sarge. A light on the camera starts blinking. “Tres, dos, uno.” The flash goes off and Donut leaps up to crow over the picture. Tucker extracts himself and goes...somewhere. Grif doesn’t know and doesn’t care.

Simmons stays where he is, frozen under Grif’s arm. At least he’s stopped squeaking?

“Hey, uh,” Grif says. “Are you...good?”

“Fuck you.” It’s quiet, and without heat, so Grif only smiles.

“I mean, you can if you want.”

And there’s a squeaking, back for round two. “I- you- That’s just- why would you even- stop laughing!” Simmons shoves Grif off from where his head has fallen on Simmons’ shoulder, shaking with laughter. “You are the worst person! I hate you!”

“You do, do y-mff!”

Suddenly, Grif has a face full of nerd. Grif’s nose is squished against Simmons’ cheek and Simmons’ lip gets caught between Grif’s teeth. It takes everything in him not to bite down on sheer reflex. On the whole, it’s less of a kiss and more of a lips first headbut.

Simmons pulls away as quickly as he’d lunged. “I- oh my God. I’m so sorry. I-”

There’s no point in trying to calm him down with words. Instead, Grif cups Simmons’ cheek with his free hand and leans in, cutting off his protests with a decidedly gentler kiss. It’s short and chaste, but when he pulls away Simmons no longer looks on the edge of an anxiety attack.

“Merry Christmas, asshole.”

Simmons smiles weakly, hands twisting in his lap.

“I still won, by the way.”

And the moments gone. “FUCK YOU!” He likes it better this way anyway.


End file.
